


Même les Plus Mignons des Pêchers

by shipthedame



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Zelda is vulnerable, because we like torturing our faves, sibling relationships, things escalate quickly in the spellman house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 09:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17180255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipthedame/pseuds/shipthedame
Summary: Pêcher mignon: French for "guilty pleasure." Lit. translation "cute sin."Zelda gets up in the middle of the night to indulge herself. It doesn't end well.Or: What happens when I try to write fluff. (Hint: This is canon in The Bird-Footed Woman!)





	Même les Plus Mignons des Pêchers

**Author's Note:**

> I like seeing Zelda hurting *shrug emoji* Also, this was written in the middle of the night so it may change! We'll see ;)

Quickly, softly, she skirts around the bend in the staircase. The third step from the last landing groans like a dying mortal and she avoids it, glancing over her shoulder as she does so. Nothing seems to be following her, and as she sends out her awareness into the house she confirms: all three of her family members are sleeping soundly, Hilda’s snores reverberating through the floorboards.

So she is alone. She made it. With a sigh Zelda re-ties the sash of her dressing gown and readjusts her headscarf, satisfied with her work. Her bare feet make no sound against the chilly floor as she pads into the kitchen, her hips swaying just out of reach of the counter corner. 

Just as the adrenaline is about to wear off a loud _mrow?_ reverberates from behind her and she yelps, jumping instinctively into a defensive position. From the counter behind her there’s a flash of two inquisitive eyes, and she can just make out the silhouette of her niece’s nosy familiar.

“Shoo.”

Salem cocks his head.

“I said _shoo_ , you terrible creature. I’ll have you know, Vinegar Tom doesn’t take kindly to spies.”

She nods towards her dear companion, curled up stiff and gathering dust in his favourite corner. Under her breath she utters a short prayer to his lingering spirit, apologizing for the lie: spying had been his, and her, favourite activity.

With an offended sneeze Salem bounds off the counter, and she watches him until he’s lost in shadows. When she’s certain he’s gone she turns back to the refrigerator and rubs her hands absentmindedly before opening it.

“Where are you…” she mutters, pushing aside a gently waving bouquet of thin tentacles lying on the top shelf. In one compartment she finds an old tube of her sister’s Russian face cream, expired for twenty years now, and in another a phial of thick black blood lying next to the butter. “For Satan’s sake, why can’t you keep anything where it belongs, Hilda?” 

And then, finally, she locates her prize. The marzipan cake is hidden in a corner of the bottom shelf, surely squirreled away to be someone else’s guilty pleasure. With a triumphant chuckle she wiggles it out of its hiding place and transfers a thick slice onto her favourite porcelain dessert plate.

“Oooh, Zelda, you’re a bad girl,” she whispers to herself delightedly, licking a stray dollop of cream from the side of the plate. “Who’s going to have to spank you now?”

Without bothering to sit down she starts into the thick covering of marzipan draped over the cake, peeling it off with her fingers and savouring every velvety bite. Then she delicately picks apart the spongy layers of cake and raspberry cream to devour them individually. It is, without doubt, the most decadent, sensuous, delicious thing she’s eaten since she left Rome almost a century ago. 

Her moan of delight is cut short when a presence appears in the doorway. “Who’s there? Zelda?”

She almost drops the plate. Just as she’s turning around to hiss at her sister, a flood of light assaults her night-trained eyes and she’s left squinting unhappily into the painful reality of her situation.

“What in the Nine Circles are you doing, Zelds?” Hilda asks, drowsily making her way into the kitchen. “You nearly scared me to death -- again.”

“None of your business, sister,” she begins, but Hilda is already squinting at her plate.

“Is that my --”

“Yes.”

“But you --”

“I did.”

They meet each other’s gazes awkwardly.

“You’ve, uh,” Hilda says finally, “you’ve got a bit of cream on your nose there.”

Hastily Zelda swipes it off, squaring her shoulders with as much dignity as she can muster. As much as she wants to, she can’t ignore her sister’s searching gaze.

“You said you didn’t like it,” Hilda starts. “You barely had a bite at dinner.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t _like_ it, I said I didn’t want to end up like _you_ ,” Zelda snaps out of habit, regretting it almost instantly.

“Yeah.”

Zelda lowers her gaze. “Well, it was... quite good.”

Hilda bares her teeth in a half-smile, still wincing. “It’s --”

“Norwegian marzipan cake, I know.”

“And you really liked it?”

“Of course.” She’s set the plate down now, flattened her hands on the counter to steady herself. “You’re, um. You’re a very talented baker, Hilda.”

“Ha!”

Hilda shakes her head like a dog, disbelieving.

“Dark Lord preserve me, I’ve been waiting centuries to hear that. What the hell, Zelda?” Her discomfort seems to have melted into anger and Zelda winces at her outburst. “ _Why_ do you _insist_ on, on cutting me down at every turn? I mean, obviously you’ve been lying to me for ages -- what else did I get right? Do you like my eyeshadow after all?”

“No! No, it’s a ludicrous fashion that was outdated before it began,” Zelda says quickly, without pause. She’s sleepy and hurt and finds herself still dazzled by the light, unable to think. For the first time in decades, Hilda seems to have the advantage.

“You’re cruel, Zelda.”

She shakes her head.

“You’re cruel, and petty, and unapologetic, and _stupid_ , and undeserving and, and --” she stops, out of breath, tears of frustration forming in her eyes. “All I’ve ever done is love you and you’ve just -- worn me down and _used_ me. Why can’t we just hate each other like you want to? What’s wrong with you? I’d leave you alone in a second if you’d let me!”

“Of course you would.” Her knuckles are white against the marble and she dashes a tear out of her eye with one tight fist. “It’s different for you.”

“Different _how_ , damn it?”

“You don’t need me.”

She’s shaking now with the humiliation, nails piercing the skin of her palms. Hilda, gaping silently, turns to watch her leave the kitchen and does nothing.

So Zelda climbs the stairs, and re-ties her sash, and goes to bed with the sweet aftertaste of marzipan gone bitter in her mouth.

And in the morning, nothing more is said.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! And come say hi to me on tumblr, @shipthedame. I have cake.


End file.
